Marble
by Reminscees
Summary: "There are stories going around, you know—" "Stories? What kind of stories?" "The usual kind; about me and you."
_**MARBLE**_

For as long as Tooru could remember, he didn't believe in love. He refused to believe in it, in those frail promises of forever and eternal glory, and he thought that it'd be a smart choice, to be stoic and alone. Relationships and love would be tiresome.

They'd be the death of him, he'd always thought.

In the end, it was Hajime who killed him.

He'd stabbed him with a burning hot slate, a red hot slash of iron sizzling on his skin, pressing deeper into his abdomen until Tooru could understand that what love was, and the feeling that your body was not enough to contain your sheer, raw affection and lust, and your heart pounding, ringing in his ears, chest tightening, palms sweating, throat constricting; it was painful, and exhilarating.

Hajime had told him that he'd loved him, all those months ago in the depth of the night, standing bare in front of him in that small apartment of his, in the kitchen, and Tooru could remember the exact moment his heart dropped and mouth dried, fingers tingled, his entire body aching for Hajime's touch and mouth. He wanted to reach out towards him, to hold him, and never let him go, and, suddenly, it all fell into place.

Things should have been perfect, after that, though, nothing ever was, not with Tooru. He was cursed, in a sense. The transition was difficult. Tooru wanted a clean slate, to pretend that none of what happened in the past ever occurred. That wasn't possible, though; he couldn't change the past, even if he told himself he could. In the end, he decided that if he really tried with all of his heart, then he could make a brand new start in love with Hajime, and that they'd be domestic and happy and all, and, sometimes, that was the case, though not really.

On lazy Thursday afternoons, when Hajime came home from class late and collapsed onto the sofa, which was more foam than fabric, at this point, and spread himself over the furniture and across Tooru's lap, it felt right. Tooru turned off the television— he'd been watching some police procedural— and carded his fingers through Hajime's hair. He could smell his shampoo— vanilla, he'd borrowed Tooru's the last time he stayed the night at his— and thought of everything they ever were and everything they ever could be. Hajime hummed in appreciation, and Tooru smiled down at him.

"There are stories going around, you know—" Hajime spoke suddenly.

"Stories? What kind of stories?"

"The usual kind; about me and you," he replied, opening his eyes slowly and sitting up to face Tooru.

"Oh," Tooru replied intelligently, "That's fine, isn't it?"

Hajime shrugged.

"Not really," he said, "We could just tell them that we're dating."

"Oh," Tooru repeated quietly, "Yeah— yeah, we could."

Hajime sighed, then.

"You're still the same," he told him, "I'm going to take a shower. I've still got some work to finish for tomorrow." he said, and stood, then, leaving Tooru to sit alone, biting at the side of his thumb.

"Alright," he spoke in the silence.

He hadn't understood what Hajime had meant that day, and even a week later, when they were eating take-out at Hajime's apartment, on the balcony, since it was warm, now, he still thought about it. They hadn't bought a table or chairs yet, and so, they sat on the gravelled concrete ground. Hajime dropped the plastic fork into the small cardboard box and took a sip of his beer, precipitation forming on the glass bottle. Tooru lit a cigarette.

"Something's bothering you," Tooru murmured as he exhaled the smoke, "You should tell me what it is."

"Should I?" Hajime mocked.

"Yes," Tooru frowned, "You should."

Hajime set down his bottle.

"Why don't you want to tell people that we're together?" he asked.

Tooru took a drag of his cigarette.

"I don't know," he answered, staring out to the city beneath them, "Why do you want to tell everyone that we're together?"

"Because I love you," Hajime replied readily. Tooru turned his head, sharply, and met Hajime's gaze. He held eye-contact with him until he felt his skin crawl.

Tooru exhaled some smoke, in a huff, and blinked up at Hajime.

"Wouldn't— don't you think— I mean, wouldn't it make things difficult?" Tooru asked, stammering.

Hajime shrugged.

"I guess," he mumbled, "It'd be worth it, though. I just...," he trailed off, picking at the concrete ground of the balcony.

"Just what?" Tooru encouraged hesitantly, as though he were afraid to hear the answer.

"I just want to hold your hand," Hajime said, "In public," he clarified, "Not being able to kiss you all the time, I mean, when I want to, it's— it can be— it's tough."

He hadn't met Tooru's eyes.

"Oh," Tooru replied, "That's— sure, yeah," he brought his cigarette up to his lips, and then stumped it out with his forefinger and thumb, staining the concrete with ash.

Hajime coughed. He pulled his knees closer to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

"Hey," Tooru said, suddenly, "Are you free this Friday? Some course mates of mine are throwing this house-party. I want you to come."

"Do you want me to come," Hajime repeated, "Or do you want me to come _with you_?"

Tooru swallowed.

"I want you to come with me; as my boyfriend." he said slowly, turning his head to watch Hajime's expression. He was biting back a smile, and then he dropped his forehead on his arms. Tooru laughed, softly, and Hajime peeked out then, his eyes warm and glossy in the evening sun. Tooru felt enormous, and purely, stupidly happy.

The air of Eita's flat had this pungent smell, a mix of weed and alcohol and sweat and cigarette smoke. It reminded Tooru of his burgeoning youth, days spent in alleyways with Tetsuro and Akaashi, and Hajime must have noticed his sense of nostalgia, for he promptly lead Tooru to the kitchen to fix him a drink, and he slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer, an act of pure affection brought out through the concoction of pre-drinking and Friday nights.

The apartment was warm and thoroughly worn; all furniture was soft around the edges, the carpet a patchwork of stains. There were some people lounging in the makeshift living room, and some standing in the kitchen, and Tooru decided to stand beside the sofa, red Solo cup in one hand, and Hajime's fingers in the other. Hajime seemed a little embarrassed, in earnest; he kept rubbing his neck each time Tooru introduced him to some friends from his course.

"This is Hajime," he'd said, with a smile far too bright and gorgeous for such a stingy environment, "He's my boyfriend."

"That's cool," they'd reply, or something similar, and then they'd ask Hajime what he majored in— physics, with an emphasis on engineering— and the conversation would commence.

"Hey, Tooru," Issei— some sociology major— shouted from the sofa, "You wanna smoke?"

Tooru sighed.

"Sure," he said, after some hesitation, and moved to sit beside him. Hajime followed him, after a while, since he'd been chatting with Morisuke— a political science sort of guy. Hajime sat down on the floor, leaning his back against his sofa, his head grazing Tooru's shins and knees; it was nothing, it was everything.

Issei passed around the joint, and Tooru inhaled a little more than the others, since he had a strong tolerance, founded in the years of his adolescence, and then passed it down to Hajime, fingers grazing his, eliciting sparks of red-hot desire and want from where his skin touched Hajime's.

It hit him like a freight train; after the second hit, he was long gone. Everything was hazy, and Issei was giggling about something with Morisuke, and Eita waved his body side to side as he lay on the floor. Hajime leaned back to rest his head on Tooru's shins, and Tooru leaned down, then, hands on either side of Hajime's face. He looked up to Tooru as though he had said something incredibly profound, or as though he were a fucking miracle. Tooru smiled, then, and Hajime pressed his palms against the outside of Tooru's shins.

"I love you," he mouthed up to Tooru, and Tooru titled his head forward towards him, laughing breathlessly.

"I love you, too," he breathed, "I love you so much."

Issei, giggling still, put on some music, then, and Hajime hummed to the tune.

"Hey," Hajime mumbled, "I love you. I'll love you forever and ever."

Tooru sighed. He could have cried then and there, truthfully.

"Let's go home," Tooru murmured, "I want to go home with you."

"Okay," Hajime replied, and it was as simple as that.

"Jesus, _fuck_ — I'm sorry about the mess," Hajime said as he pushed open the door to his apartment, tripping over a haphazardly placed lone shoe.

The ease from before, brought on by the haze of marijuana, had disappeared into nothingness.

"It's fine," Tooru replied, kicking the shoe into the corner, and when Hajime had opened his mouth to retaliate, he kissed him. Hajime laughed against his mouth, manoeuvring him to the wall beside the door. Tooru's hands wove into Hajime's hair as he titled his head and pressed his tongue inside Hajime's open mouth, breath warm and heavy. Hajime groaned, lowly, and closed his eyes as Tooru jumped into Hajime's arms, which clutched him close and pressed him against the wall with almost painful, aggressive enthusiasm. Tooru wrapped his legs around his waist and slung his arms around his neck, holding on Hajime with the desperation of a man begging for salvation at the altar of a marble church, white and cold.

Hajime pressed his forehead against Tooru's once the parted.

Hajime's lips stretched into a smile. Tooru's chest tightened. He felt as though Hajime were a miracle, some gift from God, a precious experience which he had seen unfold before him, like a flower, and now, the incarnation was complete.

"I love you," Tooru whispered. His voice was hoarse, and it was hard to say those three words, even now, when Hajime was dazed and a little drunk and still high, most likely.

"I love you, too," Hajime replied in a quiet voice. Tooru laughed, once, and then once more as Hajime ducked his head into the crook of Tooru's neck and groaned, out of frustration, perhaps.

He took long strides towards his bedroom, then, and Tooru tightened his thighs around Hajime's waist, feet digging into his lower back as he tongued at Hajime's throat. Hajime sat Tooru down on the mattress with minimal grace, and Tooru bounced, once or twice. He peeled his clothing off of his body, and it was cold until Hajime tore his shirt and trousers off, too, and delved down once more, pressing his body against Tooru's. They were perfectly aligned, a distorted reflection of one another.

Tooru placed his hands on either side of Hajime's head, staring at him as though he were a marvel. He traced every crevice, every pore of Hajime's face with gentle touches, as though he were asleep. Hajime exhaled shakily.

"What're you so nervous about?" Tooru questioned. His smile was audible in his gentle tone.

Hajime laughed breathlessly.

"Sorry," he said once more, "It's just— I'm really— I'm so _happy_."

Tooru grinned, then. He linked his fingers behind Hajime's neck and pulled him down, breath lingering. It was as though they shared the same oxygen; Tooru could feel every exhale or inhale of Hajime's on his mouth.

"I'm happy, too," he said, and Hajime closed his eyes. He raised his hand to cradle Tooru's face, his rough thumb brushing against Tooru's cheek and along his jaw, down to his neck.

Tooru linked his fingers behind Hajime's neck and pulled him down to kiss him. He could feel Hajime smile against his mouth, and he pressed him down into the pillows, kissing him slow and deep as he ran his fingers down Tooru's neck, chest, brushing across the jut of his hipbones until he reached his thighs. Tooru spread his legs, with minimal embarrassment, as Hajime's palms trailed along the inside of his upper thighs. His muscles were twitching beneath his touch.

"Spread your legs for me, baby," Hajime breathed hoarsely into his ear.

" _Baby_?"

Hajime's face turned bright red, flushing hotly, and he pressed his forehead against the juncture of Tooru's shoulder and neck, mumbling incoherently.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," Tooru teased with a smile.

"It's what I call you in my head." Hajime murmured a little louder.

He gasped as he could feel Hajime's warm fingers circle around his entrance, slick from lube which he must have grabbed earlier, and one pushed in. Tooru chocked a little, and buried his face into Hajime's shoulder, nails digging into his back. Hajime kissed at his throat, biting and sucking, until Tooru shifted towards him. He slid the second finger in, scissoring and twisting, and Tooru groaned lowly.

"Oh— fuck," he breathed, as Hajime hooked his fingers upwards, "Jesus— _shit_ ,"

Tooru dug his nails into his back, trailing them down to scratch at Hajime's upper arms, all flexed muscle now as he balanced his weight on them on top of Tooru. Hajime moaned. Tooru groaned breathlessly.

"You like that, don't you?" he purred into Hajime's ear, "Do you like me like this?"

Hajime's breath fanned over Tooru's shoulder and down his back, and he bit softly on Hajime's cartilage. Hajime tensed in his arms, arching like a bowstring towards him, and he added a third finger, thrusting them. Tooru moaned at the intrusion, and locked his ankles behind his back, pulling his earlobe between his teeth.

"C'mon," he said, his breath hitching, "I can't— fuck me— fuck me the way you want to, Hajime."

He was always vocal, when they were doing things like this; Hajime never was. It was easier that way.

The first thrust stole Tooru's breath away, and it never gave it back. He took air in shallow gasps, like a drowning man, as Hajime moved languidly in him. He shot his head back, staring at the headboard of Hajime's bed upside down, now, baring his neck to Hajime as he licked at it, biting harshly, creating dark marks that would surely last weeks. Tooru would have laughed, in a different situation, since it was almost adorable, this possessive behaviour of Hajime's towards him, as though he were some precious treasure that had to be protected. Hajime bit harshly on the junction of his shoulder and throat, and Tooru moaned loudly.

"You're so gorgeous," Hajime said lowly, "You're beautiful— your skin," he groaned, " _Fuck_ , Tooru— it's like marble."

Tooru began to mouth a reply, but Hajime had shifted a little, thrusting from a different angle, and, finally, Tooru had found what he'd been looking for. He moaned, loudly, perhaps he was even screaming, and he could barely recognise the feeling of Hajime's mouth latching onto his neck, biting behind his ear, and his fingers digging into his hips. He'd lost all sensory input in a harsh wave of pleasure, crashing down on him, pulling him down into the depths of the ocean.

He came embarrassingly fast, Hajime's name on his lips, and Hajime had gasped his name, too, soon after, filling him with heat. He rested his forehead against Hajime's, chest heaving. Hajime slipped out of him, and wiped Tooru's chest clean with some tissues.

"I need to pee," Tooru mumbled. His voice was scratchy, like some old record, and he wondered whether he screamed after all.

"That's nice, dear," Hajime replied in a heartbeat, massaging Tooru's thighs. He seemed unwilling to let go, but Tooru pried him off regardless and stepped towards the bathroom, limping a little.

He decided to brush his teeth, too, while he was already standing in front of Hajime's dirty mirror and small sink. Tooru grabbed one of the toothbrushes that rested beside the tap, squirted on some toothpaste, and stuck it in his mouth. He walked back into the bedroom, then, and searched for his boxers and a shirt, some sense of decency, and he found them hidden underneath a pile of dirty socks, though his shirt remained missing. In the end, he grabbed one of Hajime's, and he pulled it over his head, toothbrush dangling from his mouth.

"You know," said Hajime, "I don't think I've ever seen you brush your teeth before."

Tooru leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom.

"Really?" he asked.

Hajime hummed agreeably.

"Huh," said Tooru, "That's a shame. I'm ravishing when I scrape plague off of my molars."

"Yeah," he replied, caging in Tooru's body with his arms, forearms and palms on either side of Tooru's head, "Drop-dead sexy." he smiled.

Tooru took the toothbrush out of his mouth to retort, to say something funny and witty and absolutely charming, though all that halted with the force of a raging large machine when Hajime widened his eyes and dropped his jaw.

"Is that my toothbrush?" he asked.

"Maybe," Tooru replied sheepishly.

"It is! That's gross," Hajime whined.

"C'mon," Tooru laughed, squirming out of Hajime's hold to spit into the sink, "We've exchanged plenty of bodily fluids by now."

Hajime was standing, too, in boxers, desperately trying to clean the messy bedroom.

Tooru fell into the bed and crawling under the sheets, rolling onto his side and grinning at Hajime.

Hajime dropped whatever he'd been holding and took a running jump back onto the bed, making Tooru yelp as he was bounced a little into the air. Hajime grabbed his waist from behind, and Tooru was laughing, now, as Hajime dug his head into the crook of Tooru's neck.

"It looks like I've been strangled," Tooru joked.

"Huh?" Hajime mumbled.

"My neck," he answered, "You've left marks everywhere."

Hajime lifted his head.

"Oh," he said sheepishly, "Sorry about that."

Tooru tucked a strand of hair behind Hajime's ear.

"It's fine," he said, "I don't mind. I might have to lie to a professor or two, but that's alright. I'm a great liar." he grinned.

Hajime hummed in agreeably.

"You shouldn't be proud of that," he replied, "Lying is a sin."

"I'm sinfully good at it."

"You're sinfully good at a lot of things that aren't good."

"Oh, yeah?" asked Tooru, "Like what? Are you just trying to give you an after-sex blowjob, or something?"

Hajime laughed, and nuzzled into the back of Tooru's neck.

"Stay the night," he breathed, "Please— stay."

Tooru forgot what he was supposed to care about as he closed his eyes and fell in love all over again.


End file.
